


That bad feeling to wash away

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Hannibal Loves Will, Implied Mental Disorders, M/M, Murder Husbands, Protective Hannibal, Useless Talking, Will Loves Hannibal, Will is definitely not ok, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: When the bad feeling hits his mind – it has become more frequent during the past three weeks – Will tries his best to prove himself that he's alive and well, hiding somewhere with the man he has chosen to love despite all the odds.His vane speculations get abruptly interrupted by Hannibal's gentle lips on his temple, and the only thing that Will can possibly do while he kisses him that tenderly is to melt in a puddle of love, desire and necessity.“Why aren't you sleeping, Will?”





	That bad feeling to wash away

The house is silent, hidden _– almost suffocated –_ by the overgrowing woods that during the sunny days envelop everything into their sultry green light, matching the rich and clear blue of the sky above.

Will Graham lets out a soft, choked sigh, turning his head to look at the bright display of the alarm clock he insisted to buy... _a lifetime ago._

His heart, clenched in the icy hands of anxiety and nervousness, is beating so fast he's sure that Hannibal can feel its frantic thump through the mattress.

It's 2:17, but time has lost his meaning long ago to Will.

Do him and Hannibal really need to know what time is it, after all, in their exile in the woods?

A drop of cold sweat runs down Will's forehead.

There's no reason to feel the way he's feeling, considering he's living the life of his dreams, retired from the city and from any form of human interaction.

He never bothered to ask Hannibal where they live, anyway, given that the most significant contacts with the locals are their occasional hunts, when they both have their itches to scratch. Their hunts always culminate in sumptuous dinners – Will has helplessly fallen in love with Hannibal's version of the  _Lungs Bourguignonne –_ and strenuous fucking, yet Will has never been able to understand which language their victims speak... _it's difficult to discern polish from french or english from russian, when the only sounds coming from their crushed throats are “mmmmh” and “hmpfff”._

At first, Will wasn't really in the mood for asking, always high on the massive amounts of painkillers he had to gulp down every morning after the spectacular killing of the Dragon and a free fall down a cliff.

The disrupting impact with the ice-cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean had left him with a severely injured leg, various cracked ribs and a crushed sternum.

Compared to him, Hannibal looked as fresh as a daisy.

Will doesn't remember much of the first weeks as a returned: his only memories are blurred, as if he was watching his life from the window of a high-speed train.

_Hannibal whispering soothing words to his ear, singing him a lithuanian lullaby and running his fingers through the sweaty mop of his hair._

When he was able to sit on a wheelchair without needing an extra dose of painkillers, a flight took him and Hannibal away, destination God-knows-where, the capital city of I-don't-care.

Much to his surprise, Hannibal had bought a luxury cabin in the woods, close enough to a river where he started to fish as soon as he could leave his crutches and limp into the fresh grass with a fishing pole in his good hand.

Sometimes Will still misses his dogs, his pack of mismatched strays, but he's more than happy to have left his old life behind to be with Hannibal.

Yet, some days a subtle, bad feeling grips him tight, keeping him awake, starving for...anything.

It's something more than just anxiety, its _his desperate need to believe that he's not in a coma somewhere, living his own personal heaven, while Hannibal is feeding the groupers at the bottom of the ocean._

When the bad feeling hits his mind – it has become more frequent during the past three weeks – Will tries his best to prove himself that he's alive and well, hiding somewhere with the man he has chosen to love despite all the odds.

His vane speculations get abruptly interrupted by Hannibal's gentle lips on his temple, and the only thing that Will can possibly do while he kisses him _that_ tenderly is to melt in a puddle of love, desire and necessity.

“Why aren't you sleeping, Will?”, he inquires, his voice husky from sleep and his amber eyes half open in the darkness.

The younger man inhales deeply, striving to give his thoughts a coherent direction instead of mumbling a series of whiny “fuck me”, “I need you” and “I want you to touch me”.

“Annoying thoughts, I guess...”, he babbles instead, trying to dismiss the problem without worrying Hannibal too much.

Hannibal, however, has always been _too good_ at sensing his distress.

“Annoying thoughts about what, exactly? If I may ask.”

There's concern in his voice.

_Attempt miserably failed._

Will shrugs, his bare shoulder brushing against the soft hair on his lover's chest.

The former psychiatrist glares at him with a raised brow, as if to say c _ome on, Will, you can't fool me. I'm a smartass and I can read you like an open book. Just spill the beans and let me help you._

“I was overthinking, actually. But you already knew it, don't you?”

“I strongly suspected that, yes.”

Will can't help but roll his eyes at his sarcastic tone.

“Stop doing that. I hate to know that I can't have private thoughts, when you're with me.”

“Please, Will. Don't change the subject.”

Will Graham shrugs again, taking a deep breath and wondering if it's wise to tell Hannibal how he feels or if it would be better just to _ignore_ his feelings and try to sleep as if nothing had happened at all.

_He knows he can't lie to Hannibal Lecter. No one can. And if he was stupid enough to try..._

“Fine”, he whispers, more to himself than to the man who's patiently waiting for an answer at his side, “I was wondering...if you still contemplate the idea of eating me, someday.”

He wasn't really thinking about that, actually, but the thought _was there._

He could feel it buzzing into his ears, covered by the screams of his scarred mind convincing him that anything that happened after the cliff was just his fantasy rebelling against a reality it couldn't bear anymore.

It's a soft whisper in the air, the song of a cruel fairy singing him that _if Hannibal could actually eat him, it would undoubtedly mean that they're both alive, together._

Hannibal smiles fondly, stretching his long fingers to brush against Will's pale cheek.

The younger man lets out a content sigh and leans into the touch, his rosy mouth sightly agape with the simple pleasure of such a common sign of affection.

“Will, I told you long ago that I will always... _feel that way_ for you. But since I could never live knowing that you're not with me anymore, I must treasure my _hunger_ for you as a fantasy. You don't have to be afraid... _I will never hurt you._ ”

“I'm not afraid, Hannibal", he promptly states. "On the contrary...sometimes I just think that you _should_ eat me. Would you, if I asked you to?”

It takes a long time to Hannibal to answer Will's question.

Endless seconds in which Will tries to guess what he's gonna say, but his mind is moving so fast he can't even reach a single thought from the blurred bunch that's hitting his conscience.

“No, absolutely not, Will. I'd gladly give up anything to make you happy, but this is not a desire I can grant you”, he whispers, wrapping Will into his muscular arms and placing a kiss on his exquisitely scented locks.

“But...you think about it, don't you?”, Will lets out a small laugh of some sort. It's not amused, nor happy. Is just a nervous laugh, a useless way to keep tension at bay...and faking carelessness. “Sometimes...”, he stutters, “sometimes I just wander around the toolshed and I picture myself severing my arm and then serving it for dinner. We...in this daydream, if you allow me to call it like that, we both eat my arm and then...and then you tell me that I did a good job, wiping some crumbs from your mouth with a fine napkin...I can't help but wonder how my flesh might taste...”, he ends, casually brushing the jammed ends of the bite Hannibal has given him on his inner thigh, just a couple of hours ago, while they were making out on the furry carpet of the living room.

Hannibal places a warm, sloppy kiss in the crook of his neck and a bell rings into Will's brain.

_He wants Hannibal to bite him there._

“Don't you dare to mutilate this lovely body of yours, Will. I'm serious. I was sure we had agreed ages ago not to hurt each other anymore...”

“Would it really count as mutual hurting if I willingly chop my arm off alone?”

Hannibal nods.

“Of course it would. You would risk your own life to fulfill one of my ultimate desires and it would kill me to know that you got hurt while doing something in order to please me.”

Will settles himself into Hannibal's impossibly warm embrace.

He smells of expensive body wash and earthy musk, like the spoiled predator he is.

“Do you think that I would have a nice taste, if my flesh was seasoned and cooked in some fancy way?”

“Will...”

“No, please. I _need_ to know it.”

_I need you to eat me so I could be definitely sure that this isn't just a cruel reverie,_ he wants to say. But luckily his mouth shuts just in time.

Hannibal shakes his head.

Will doesn't even question his sanity anymore, not since Baltimore, Jack and Alan had become nothing but fading memories carefully stored in the most secluded drawer of his mind.

“I think I could never humiliate your flesh with seasonings, for that matter”, starts Hannibal, pondering his words thoroughly. “I'm sure you'd taste...more than exquisitely, Will. You would taste like the finest delicacy, that's it. I honestly think that anything that could come after _...you_ would taste like mud or sand, compared to your flesh.”

A jolt of pleasure runs down Will's spine.

_“Eat me, then”_ , he purrs.

Hannibal shakes his head vehemently.

“Will, my dear Will. You can't just charm me into eating you. My professional side is screaming that you're suffering suicidal thoughts, and this is not...good.”

Will frowns.

“suicidal thoughts? I hope you're kidding me. I would just...”

“...You would just end up bleeding to death in the woods, with a missing limb and the feeling that you made a huge mistake.”

“It isn't true. I can perfectly tend to my wounds, Hannibal. You taught me how.”

The former psychiatrist shushes him with a kiss.

“Will, please. Do I have to hire a caretaker to keep an eye on you while I'm away? I will, if you force me to with your absurd nonsense.”

Will bites his lower lip.

“Hannibal...I need it. I need...a proof.”

Hannibal stares at him, a confused look on his tired face.

“You do...need a proof of what?”

“ _I need a proof that I'm not dreaming._ I need to know that I won't wake up some day in a sterile ICU room, figuring out that you are dead and all this time together was just a cruel joke of my mind.”

Hannibal gently pulls his hair and Will feels relieved by the painful sting in his scalp.

“I bit you in the living room. Inner thing. Right leg. Touch the bite, please, would you?”

The younger man nods, doing what his lover has ordered him to do.

“It...hurts. I can still feel the mark of your teeth.”

“Good. So it means that we're okay, isn't it?”

Will shakes his head.

“ _Can you please bite me again? Just...just to be sure.”_

Hannibal smiles faintly.

“Where?”, he asks, after a long moment of uncertainty.

Will's heart skips a beat.

“The crook of my neck. I want you to bite me hard”, he says, presenting his soft throat to Hannibal, who needs to duck his head to have better access to the tender flesh.

Without any warning, the man digs his sharp teeth into Will's scented skin, feeling the quick carotid pulse under his upper lip.

Will Graham lets out a satisfied, thankful moan.

Some drops of his blood run down his shoulder and get on his pillow.

_He is alive._

_They both are._

_He's not dreaming._

The bright display of the alarm clock is now reading 3.45 a.m, and some birds are tweeting cheerfully outside the half-open patio door.

“This should be enough...for a while”, he whispers, almost breathless, into Hannibal's soft hair.

The former psychiatrist grins, licking away some blood from his quickly reddening skin.

“Don't you ever dare to keep such dangerous thoughts to yourself, Will Graham”, he reprimands. But there's more relief than anger in his voice.

Will nods, the tip of his nose brushing against Hannibal's forehead.

He's ready to sleep, now.

Hannibal has washed away all of his illogical doubts with a bite - a quite powerful one - and his mind has finally stopped screaming.

_There's quiet._

_There's peace._

Will places his head on Hannibal's chest, enjoying the beautiful sensation of his fingertips gently massaging the back of his head.

"We're really here...", he whispers.

A cool breeze coming from the woods blows the pristine curtains up, giving him goosebumps.

Another proof that he's not dreaming, as if it was necessary to confirm what he already knew.

The bite embedded in his skin burns delightfully with every little move of Hannibal's chest.

Will smiles, placing a soft kiss on his lover's nipple and he hums in response.

_"Thank you",_ he breathes out.

Hannibal's lips curl into a smile.

"Sleep, Will", he commands.

The younger man lets out a relieved sigh, wrapping his arms tightly around Hannibal's waist.

_If his mind is gonna play him another cruel trick, he's ready to face it because Hannibal is at his side...and he would never allow anyone to hurt them._

Not even Will's mind. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
